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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27755734">nontraditional</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lark_song/pseuds/lark_song'>lark_song</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Kid Fic, bad parenting but make it low stakes, brief mention of twincest, father/son scheming, jaime just really loves blue, no angst no plot no problem, tiktok shenanigans (eventually)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:20:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,682</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27755734</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lark_song/pseuds/lark_song</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dad. I have to tell you something,” Rowan says, nerves eliding the words: Ihaftatellyousomething.</p><p>“You’re in love with Mom."</p><p>∆ ∆ ∆</p><p>In which Jaime is introduced to TikTok, Hyle is a cryptid, and Pinterest user FastCar420 is tired of answering GoldenLionDad's questions about gay desserts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>176</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>203</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. one.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello. i'm new here!</p><p>unbeta'd and only half-assedly proofread, so please excuse the typos/weird grammar. i wrote this in a couple of hours and want to post it before i lose my nerve. this is also the first thing i've written in... a long time, so feedback would be very much appreciated if you have any, because wow i am rusty!</p><p>i have some ideas for where this is going next (a few tiktok-themed drabbles + one or possibly two more chapters of this length), but if you're looking for solid characterization, a reliable update schedule, or a coherent narrative... you have walked into the wrong bar.</p><p>"what even is this?" you may find yourself asking as you read. the answer is! idk, pal! thanks for being here anyway!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bread basket has barely hit the table when Rowan clears his throat to indicate that he is about to say something very serious.</p><p>He inherited that habit from Brienne.</p><p>Jaime leans back slightly in his seat, face open and encouraging, as he slowly twirls the stem of his wine glass between the thumb and middle finger of his left hand. At some point between the appetizers and the main course, Rowan will ask for a sip of Dornish red, and Jaime will say yes.</p><p>Once the silence has had a chance to breathe, Rowan says, “Dad.” His lips are pressed together, slightly downturned at the corners, and his voice is so very, very solemn.</p><p>“Son,” Jaime replies, in an equally grave tone, and then reaches into the basket for a bread roll. He splits it with his fingers, butters it generously, and offers it to Rowan.</p><p>Rowan accepts. Takes a huge bite. Chews slowly and bides his time.</p><p>Jaime reaches back into the bread basket and waits for Rowan to find his courage. In general, but especially where teenagers are concerned, he finds it is best to let children do things in their own time.</p><p>“I have to tell you something,” Rowan says, nerves eliding the words: Ihaftatellyousomething.</p><p>This is a conversation Jaime has been waiting to have.</p><p>Six months ago, Jaime borrowed Rowan’s laptop to check his work email and accidentally pressed a hot key that pulled up the weirnet search history: <em>how to tell if you’re gay; am I gay quiz; signs you’re gay; Kinsey scale quiz;</em> so on and so forth. Jaime had closed out the tab as soon as he realized what he was seeing, and spent the rest of the night discreetly creating a mood board for a coming out party.</p><p>According to Pinterest user FastCar420, rainbow cupcake towers are gauche, while fault line cakes provide ample opportunity to incorporate a rainbow motif while remaining understated.</p><p>“You can tell me anything, kid,” Jaime says, mouth quirked into his gentlest and most reassuring smile, as he silently considers just how much of his romantic history predating his life as a nigh celibate single father would be appropriate to share with his son.</p><p>They are a remarkably open family, the three of them, but there is such a thing as <em>too</em> open; of this, Jaime is well aware.</p><p>Rowan sets down his half-eaten dinner roll, chewing his plump bottom lip in contemplation. These—the persistent lip-biting and the (markedly less persistant) careful weighing of his words—are also traits he gets from his mother. His eyes, as well—in color, if not in shape. Tarth blue, Jaime calls them; his favorite color.</p><p><em>He really is a pretty little bastard</em>, Tyrion said once, and Jaime had almost barked at him to mind his tongue, except—well. It was true: Rowan <em>is</em> pretty, and a bastard, too, technically. When Tyrion made that quip, Rowan had also been little.</p><p>Jaime bites into his bread roll while he waits. There must be something in Tarth genetics that predisposes them to making a Lannister wait; and they are singularly good at it, too.</p><p>Finally, Rowan says his piece, “You’re in love with Mom.”</p><p>The bread Jaime’s just swallowed goes down the wrong pipe; it is this that causes Jaime’s heart to seize and turns his palms sweaty.</p><p>One prolonged coughing fit and a few desperate swallows of wine later, his glass is empty and Rowan’s expression is expectant, bordering on impatient, and, probably owing to the sudden deprivation of oxygen to his brain, Jaime can’t think quickly enough to devise a decent stalling strategy.</p><p>Nothing to do but address the charges laid before him, then.</p><p>“Rowan.” It’s Jaime’s turn to clear his throat, to announce the gravity of his next words. “I understand it’s—difficult, maybe. For you. Your mother and I not being… together, I mean.”</p><p>Apart from being open, theirs was a ‘nontraditional family.’ Those had been the words the headmistress of Rowan’s school had used to describe Jaime and Brienne’s co-parenting arrangement.</p><p>A nontraditional family, because apart from one rum-soaked, heady night in Oldtown, there has never been a Jaime-and-Brienne. Only Jaime, and Brienne. Separately, always. Except the once.</p><p>It had been the night after they’d graduated from university. He could hardly remember it, long-past and hazy as the memory was, and so he rarely even thought about it.</p><p>Except to daydream about the play of Brienne’s toned muscles bunching and releasing beneath his hands, or the way her eyes glowed in the moonlight that pierced through the thin, gauzy curtains covering the windows in his studio apartment.</p><p>And sometimes, when they’re on the phone, discussing Rowan’s latest progress report or upcoming swim meets or the distressing frequency with which he outgrows his clothes, Brienne will sigh in a way that calls to mind the breathy, hungry sounds she made when he’d touched her just so, and the feral moans she tried to silence when he made her come for the first and second (and third, and maybe fourth—he’d been too drunk to count, let alone remember) time.</p><p>And every so often, when they have their weekly family dinners at Brienne’s modest townhouse off River Row, she’ll pop out of the kitchen with her cheeks flushed from standing over the hot stove, and Jaime will recollect watching that same flush spread down her neck and chest, all the way to the tips of her breasts, from his vantage point between her thighs—</p><p>Flashbulb memory is a real thing. A powerful thing, in fact.</p><p>When she’d called him up five weeks later, he’d almost expected—and completely, foolishly wanted—her to tell him she’d changed her mind about moving to King’s Landing and did, in fact, want to take him up on the offer of his spare bedroom in his new penthouse in Dorne.</p><p>Instead, she’d said, “I’m late,” and then, “I’m never late,” and finally, “I have an appointment next week, to confirm. Or not confirm.”</p><p>Jaime had accompanied her to the appointment, and in the end, he’d been the one to move into Brienne’s spare bedroom.</p><p>Jaime’s reverie is interrupted by the return of the server, appetizers in hand; he claims two lamb skewers for himself.</p><p>“Dad, no. Just—listen.” Rowan says, once Jaime’s wine glass has been re-filled generously and they are alone again.</p><p>“This isn’t some… fantasy I’m trying to make real. I don’t care if you and Mom are together or not—or, not <em>really</em>. I mean, it could be nice, I guess? But mostly, I’d like to not have to see that sad, secret look you give Mom every time we watch a rom-com, or a rom-dram, or literally any movie where two people kiss or hold hands or just—<em>gaze</em>.”</p><p>Two mismatched grimaces: one apologetic, but determined; the other a perfect picture of abject humiliation.</p><p>Rowan continues, “And, gods, <em>every</em> <em>time</em> she wears blue, you just <em>have</em> to make some comment about how she <em>looks well</em> in that outfit and how the color <em>suits her</em> because it <em>matches her eyes</em>.”</p><p>“And speaking of Mom’s eyes, you buy <em>everything</em> in blue.” Rowan throws his hands in the air, eyes wide with mild exasperation. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. <em>Everyone’s </em>noticed. We all see you, Dad! Everyone! Throw blankets and phone cases and mugs—and that corny sweater you wear to all of Mom’s races! The one with that old sword you’re obsessed with on the front. All of it! Everything! Blue! Sometimes, when I walk into your house, I feel like I’m entering some—some—wherever it is people go to worship the color blue!”</p><p>Rowan is picking up steam, brows climbing up his forehead in tandem with his rising voice.</p><p>Jaime’s head might go up in flames, so intense is the flush rising up the back of his neck. He’s acutely aware of the fellow diners within hearing distance, as well as the server hovering in the background, waiting for an opportune moment to clear away the now-cold appetizers they’ve hardly touched. He wishes—not for the first time—that his son wasn’t quite so perceptive. Or expressive.</p><p>“Then there are the weekends Mom and Hyle go away on holiday, or when you come over to hang out with me on their date nights. Or literally any time Hyle is mentioned. You... mope. Like right now! You’re moping <em>right now</em>“—Jaime wipes the morose frown off his face, forces himself to stop picking at the lamb skewer on his plate—“and, don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s gotten a little pa—”</p><p>“Enough!” Jaime cries, only barely resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Rowan. Enough.”</p><p>“But, Dad—”</p><p>“You’ve made your point, kid. Loudly, and at length.” He drains his wine glass—again—and decides in that moment that when Rowan begs a sip, the answer will be no.</p><p>He signals for the server to approach, thanking them for their patience as they take away their plates.</p><p>“All right.” Jaime lays his hands flat against the white table cloth in an attempt to ground himself. “Okay. Message received.”</p><p>“Am I wrong?” Rowan asks, in a tone that says he knows he very much is not.</p><p>Lips pursed, Jaime shakes his head. No use lying to the boy; he knows all of Jaime’s tells.</p><p>“Fine. Yes. I love your mother.” Jaime’s chest feels warm, his head is light. Probably because of the wine; it’s very good. “But. Sometimes, loving someone isn’t—enough. Things can be… more complicated, for adults.” Rowan snorts, one eyebrow raised mockingly above narrowed eyes.</p><p>“Give me a break.” He folds his arms across his chest, every bit Tywin Lannister’s grandson, and the sight sends a chill down Jaime’s spine. “How complicated could it be?”</p><p>“Very! There are a lot of factors. You, for starters—”</p><p>“Nope. Weak. So weak, I don’t even need to give you a ten-point response outlining how weak of an argument it is, even though I <em>could</em>.”</p><p>Twenty minutes ago, Jaime thought he and Ro would be discussing coming out party venue locations by this point.</p><p>Now, if a meteor were to smash directly into his skull, Jaime would greet the Stranger with an open-mouthed kiss and the most effusive thank-you card ever written.</p><p>“There’s also the small matter of how your mother feels—”</p><p>“She loves you, too,” Rowan interrupts, and he may as well be pointing out the fact that water is wet, for all he says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like he didn’t just send his father’s skeleton flying out of his body.</p><p>Jaime’s bones are probably halfway to Riverrun by now. They’re probably whistling a merry little tune as they jaunt along.</p><p>“How do you—did she say something to you?” Jaime cringes at the eagerness in his voice.</p><p>Rowan smirks as he tilts his head to one side, golden curls tumbling toward his shoulder. “She doesn’t have to say anything to me. Did <em>you</em>?”</p><p>This is the point at which Jaime has to remind himself that throttling a fourteen-year-old child is, first and foremost, wrong, and also, poor form while dining out in public.</p><p>“Even if—and that’s a big <em>if</em>, young man—your mother has. Feelings—”</p><p>“Everyone has feelings, Dad.” Deadpan. The sardonic little shit. “Even Mom.”</p><p>“—there’s Hyle—"</p><p>“Hyle sucks. He’s like… like if a wet paper bag gained sentience, and then exercised their newfound agency by practicing tax evasion.”</p><p>“Even so—”</p><p>“Hyle is a cryptid; he’s so boring, people aren’t even sure he actually exists. Every few weeks, he kills someone in broad daylight and never gets caught because people literally cannot remember his boring-ass face.”</p><p>A half-delighted giggle rises up Jaime’s throat; he drowns it with what’s left of his wine. “Okay, but you have to consider—"</p><p>“Do not.”</p><p>“Do <em>too</em>.”</p><p>Jaime is only somewhat perturbed by the realization that this conversation has taken on the tone of a back-seat squabble between two playmates.</p><p>“No. I don’t.” Rowan grins then, sharp and glittering and gleeful. “I don’t have to consider Hyle at all, because Mom doesn’t even <em>like</em> him. Which is also okay, because I have a plan. A good one.”</p><p>Jaime should not take the bait. He shouldn’t. A sensible, responsible father would not.</p><p>But Jaime has never been particularly sensible or responsible after three glasses of wine, so he finds himself tipping his chin inquisitively.</p><p>“Have you,” Rowan starts, leaning forward conspiratorially, “ever heard of TikTok?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. two.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hellooooo! chapter two is here.</p><p>thank you so much to everyone who commented and left kudos on the last chapter. y'all are so kind!</p><p>this chapter is, uh, twice as long as the first, because there were a few things i needed to move into place before getting to the fun lil tiktok drabbles. also because i am incapable of paring things down. i only read through it twice, so please excuse any errors!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rowan’s mom used to tell him bedtime stories about brave knights rescuing innocents and battling fierce dragons controlled by cruel lords. For a long time, he thought the stories were true.</p><p>Because his mother is Brienne Tarth, and for every knightly deed she recounted to him before bedtime, he could easily name three deeds of her own that made the Sword of the Morning look like a chump. When Rowan was eight, he watched her lift a car—an actual car—with her bare hands to rescue a litter of kittens that had gotten stuck underneath. That same woman took the kittens to the vet, then home, where she nursed them to health until they could be rehomed.</p><p>So, when your mom is Brienne Tarth and she tells you the brave Blue Knight dropped a literal boulder onto her foes’ skiff in order to protect her charge, you take one good look at your tall, strong mom and think, “Yeah, that seems like something someone could do.”</p><p>The point is, his mom is amazing. And a little terrifying.</p><p>Also amazing and a little terrifying? His dad.</p><p>His parents are <em>perfect</em> for each other.</p><p>Which is why it’s time for them to stop dancing around each other. Rowan’s had enough—everyone’s had enough, but Rowan most of all—and TikTok is the weapon he will wield to put an end to his suffering.</p><p>He’s chosen a handful of wholesome challenges for the three of them to complete together, as well as a few lighthearted pranks for him and his dad to pull on his mom. Convincing his mom to participate will be a challenge, but Rowan is banking on his mom’s love of family time outweighing her hatred of attention, or doing anything that involves a camera.</p><p>It’s not like he thinks tricking his mom into holding his dad’s hand on camera will make them open their eyes to what everyone else already sees—that they’re meant to be—Rowan just needs his parents to spend enough time together that his mom realizes how much happier, and just generally <em>better</em>, things are when the two of them are together. And if that means Rowan has to record, for posterity, the stupidly soft looks they both get when they look at each other, so be it. He’ll make the sacrifice, and happily.</p><p>He spends most of the twenty-minute drive from the restaurant to his mom’s house explaining this to his dad, who appears to be completely on board, if his five probing questions about the Surprise Hug Challenge are anything to go by. Until, that is, Rowan outlines the many, many anti-Hyle TikToks he plans to record in his spare time.</p><p>“You’re telling me your plan,” his dad says as the car rolls to a stop in front of the townhouse Rowan shares with his mom half the time, “your <em>grand</em> plan—is to <em>cyberbully Hyle</em>?”</p><p>“No! Well, a little. But that’s just one small part of the plan,” Rowan replies, twisting in his seat to face Jaime, who looks thoroughly unimpressed.</p><p>There is a part of Rowan that recognizes that humiliating Hyle on social media will accomplish nothing, except courting his mom’s ire, but a larger part of him is really attached to the idea.</p><p>And, frankly, the frequency with which Hyle shouts out, unprompted and apropos of nothing, ‘<em>Swag!</em>’ indicates that the man himself has, on some level, a desire to be cyberbullied.</p><p>“You will not cyberbully Hyle on TikTok, Rowan. Understood?” Jaime says in a commanding tone, and the look he gives Rowan is stern: lips pressed into an unforgiving line, chin tilted ever so slightly to emphasize the seriousness of his furrowed brow.</p><p>There’s no arguing with that look, so Rowan heaves a sigh, chin falling to his chest like a boy whose entire world has just crumbled under the weight of Jaime’s parental authority.</p><p>“Fine. I promise I will not roast Hyle on the family TikTok,” he concedes.</p><p>Which is a shame, because it’s Rowan’s favorite part of the plan, but ultimately immaterial— what does he need to embarrass Hyle for, anyway? Hyle does a fine enough job of embarrassing himself.</p><p>∆ ∆ ∆</p><p>Rowan intends to keep his promise to his dad. He really, really does.</p><p>All night, after his dad drops him off at home, he intends to keep the promise.</p><p>And when he wakes up in the morning and ambles into the kitchen for some cereal, he still intends to keep his promise.</p><p>Enter Hyle. In the flesh.</p><p>He greets Rowan as he saunters into the kitchen, hair mussed and eyes slightly puffy from sleep. “Good morning, lad.”</p><p>“Morning, Hyle.”</p><p>Rowan watches warily from across the kitchen island as Hyle pulls out coffee and two mugs from a cupboard. He holds up a third mug, waving it in Rowan’s direction in silent offering. Rowan shakes his head softly. “No, thank you.”</p><p>Hyle shrugs and returns the third mug to the cupboard.</p><p>“Sleep well?” he asks, unerringly polite as his mother raised him to be.</p><p>“Sure did,” Hyle replies. He snags the electric kettle from its cradle nearby and makes toward the sink on the other side of the kitchen. “How was dinner with your dad? He take you somewhere expensive?” He pauses on his way to the sink to wink at Rowan.</p><p>The attempt at chumminess rankles, but Rowans keeps his tone neutral when he answers, “Just the usual place. Pentoshi.” He thinks his words might be drowned out by the gurgle of the running sink—not that it matters. Hyle doesn’t actually care about Rowan’s dinner with his father, he’s just terminally incapable of doing anything in silence. It’s the one thing he shares in common with Rowan’s dad.</p><p>Abruptly, Hyle cuts the faucet, and gestures toward the window above the sink with the half-filled kettle.</p><p>“What’s going on over there?”</p><p>Rowan cranes his neck to peer out the window from his perch at the kitchen island. It only takes him a moment to realize that Hyle is looking at a squat brick building in the midst of a renovation.</p><p>“New shelter for the houseless,” he says. Rowan settles back into his chair, pushes his cereal down into the milk with the flat of his spoon.</p><p>Hyle grumbles as he turns the sink back on and finishes filling the kettle, but otherwise says nothing. Rowan spoons the cereal into his mouth enthusiastically, enjoying the quiet as Hyle brews the coffee.</p><p>“Homeless shelters drive down property values, you know,” Hyle sniffs, back turned to Rowan as he pours coffee into the two mugs he’d selected from the cupboard.</p><p>Rowan rolls his eyes at Hyle’s back. “Houseless,” he corrects, knowing full well that Hyle will not register the correction. Too busy whining about the decreasing value of his mom’s home, as is his wont.</p><p>The value of his mom’s townhouse was one of the first things he’d commented on during his first visit to the townhouse, a little over one year earlier. “Waterfront property,” he’d said, gazing out the back window at Blackwater Bay with a dreamy smile on his plain face, “that’s good. Waterfront properties retain more value than landlocked lots—so long as you move faster than climate change, ey?”</p><p>“Your mother know about that? The shelter?” he asks. Hyle sets the filled mugs on the kitchen island, where the sugar is kept. He spoons two heaping lumps of sugar into the first mug.</p><p>“Of course,” Rowan says. “She helped petition the council to approve it.” His brow furrows in concern as Hyle’s spoon dives back into the sugar jar for a third time.</p><p>Hyle snorts. “Sounds like her. Bleeding heart, your mom.” He drops the third lump of sugar into the second mug, and Rowan frowns, because that <em>has</em> to be his mom’s coffee, but his mom takes her coffee black. She always has. Like any self-respecting investigative journalist, she likes to joke, she likes her coffee like she likes the truth: bitter, and never watered down.</p><p>His mom has a tendency to deny herself things she’s earned ten times over, which often results in her making decisions Rowan can’t begin to comprehend—Hyle chief among them.</p><p>But at the very least, she deserves someone who knows how she likes her <em>fucking coffee</em>.</p><p>Rowan shoots up from the barstool, empty cereal bowl in hand. He comes around the island, mouth twisted into a grimace, and with his free hand, he snatches the second mug away from Hyle. Hot coffee sloshes over the rim of the mug, splashing over his fingers. Rowan doesn’t even feel it.</p><p>He stalks over to the sink and pours out the sweetened coffee, along with the last dregs of milk in his bowl. Methodically places the empty bowl and dirty spoon in the dishwasher, then returns to the island.</p><p>He slams the empty mug down in front of Hyle on his way out of the kitchen, but keeps his tone breezy when he says over his shoulder, “Mom takes her coffee black, Kyle.”</p><p>Rowan has to find a way to keep his promise to his dad, while making sure that Hyle gets his.</p><p>He knows just the person to speak to.</p><p>∆ ∆ ∆</p><p>She hadn’t invited Hyle to come over last night, but when the sound of the doorbell ringing woke her from an early evening nap, she’d answered and let him inside.</p><p>They’ve been together for almost eighteen months, now. She likes his presence, or rather, likes that he is <em>a</em> presence. Likes that he’s dependable for certain things: not taking it personally when she’s on deadline and ignores his text messages; being on time; never pushing her for more than she wants to offer.</p><p>Above everything, she’d told him once, she was a mother and a journalist (and not necessarily always in that order). Nothing could ever come before that. He’d smiled, perfectly content to fall somewhere toward the middle of her list of priorities.</p><p>She’s content, too. Hyle doesn’t really add to her feelings of contentment, but he doesn’t detract from them, either, and Brienne’s never been a greedy person; she knows what she looks like, how people see her. She learned the hard way when to stop asking for more.</p><p>The sounds of the running faucet and Hyle and Rowan making conversation float up the stairs, through her open bedroom door.</p><p>Hyle and Rowan spending time alone together unnerves her in some distant way. Maybe it’s because she met Hyle on a dating app, where his bio read ‘my dick works’ and she’s never really been able to scrub that fact from her mind, let alone feel entirely comfortable leaving that man alone with her son.</p><p>Questionable dating app behavior aside, Hyle’s a decent sort, and as far as she can tell, here to stay. She should get used to him spending time alone with Rowan. She should. She will. She’s working on it.</p><p>Her shoulders loosen when the hum of conversation stops and she hears Rowan’s light steps up the stairs. As his footsteps grow nearer, she slides an old sticky note between the open pages of her book and sets it down beside her on the bed.</p><p>Rowan appears in her doorway, leaning against the frame with an irritated look on his face.</p><p>“Good morning, little star,” she says softly, and the cloud over him lifts.</p><p>Her father called her little star. Rowan never got to meet him. They have the same booming laugh.</p><p>“G’morning, Mom.” He approaches the bed, sits down on the edge of the mattress, by her feet, and stretches out his legs before him. Brienne watches his heels bounce arrhythmically against the carpet. He’ll be as tall as her in no time at all.</p><p>“Hyle’s making coffee.”</p><p>He’s stalling, which means there’s either something on his mind, or he has a request. Judging by the way he worries his bottom lip, Brienne thinks it may be a little bit of both.</p><p>“That’s good of him,” she says.</p><p>Rowan huffs, turning his head toward the open door to conceal an eye roll.</p><p>She reaches out to ruffle his curls, is pleased when he only half-ducks away, a smile pulling at the bottom lip stuck between his teeth. “What’s on your mind, love?”</p><p>“I wanted to go see Uncle Tyrion today,” he says when he looks at her again.</p><p>“That’s fine. Just don’t stay too late, and remember—”</p><p>“Whatever he tells me to do, do the opposite. I know.” His nose wrinkles in amusement. “Unless it’s about money—”</p><p>“<em>Especially</em> if it’s about money. White collar prison is still prison.” She keeps her tone firm, but she’s half-joking. Tyrion takes good care of the boy.</p><p>“There’s something else…”</p><p>One brow raised in question, she motions for him to get on with it. “I was wondering”—he clears his throat—“can we do a—a game night? A family game night? The three of us? Maybe next weekend? Saturday, maybe?”</p><p>Brienne throws her head back in laughter; what kind of fourteen-year-old asks—nervously, she might add—to spend Saturday night with their parents?</p><p>“That sounds lovely, little star,” she says with a fond grin, “I’ll bring some board games up from the basement—”</p><p>“No!” Rowan cries out. He clears his throat again, composing himself. “I mean—that is, I already have a game in mind. No trip to the basement necessary.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>He nods, quickly adding, “But it’s a surprise!”</p><p>“Oh.” She tamps down on the frown tugging at one corner of her mouth. Surprises are not something she generally enjoys.</p><p>“Aw, Mom, don’t look like that.” Rowan rises from the bed and presses a kiss to her cheek. “It’ll be fun, I promise!”</p><p>Brienne hums. “Well, all right, then. I’ll let your dad know.”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it. Already told him,” he replies, walking backward toward the door.</p><p>Something in the delighted grin he wears as he ducks out of the room stirs suspicion in Brienne.</p><p>What is her son up to?</p><p>∆ ∆ ∆</p><p>The thing about his uncle Tyrion is that he’s <em>cool</em>.</p><p>Rowan has no idea what he does for a living. He asked, once, and Tyrion waved his hand languidly through the air, fingers curling in toward the open palm he held facing up toward the sky, a vague gesture he paired with an equally vague tone, “I… drink. And I know things.”</p><p>And know things he does: a little about everything; and a lot about most things.</p><p>When he describes his uncle to other people, he sounds like a person Rowan’s made up—an amalgamation of every explorer and spy and rogue from every action movie he’s ever seen and every adventure novel he’s ever read: he writes a series of highly popular political thrillers under a pseudonym; he once spent a summer on a submarine, documenting the crew’s (ultimately unsuccessful) search for an actual kraken; he restored what was once an ancient brothel, known in the Age of Heroes as Chataya’s, and is now his home, complete with secret passageways and hidden entrances and exits; and—this one is Rowan’s personal favorite—he pissed off the edge of the fucking <em>Wall</em>, just to say he did it.</p><p>Which is why, once Rowan’s decided he can’t simply let Hyle’s utter lack of appreciation for his mom go unaddressed, his uncle is the first person he goes to.</p><p>“I have a problem, and I need your help,” he announces as soon as his uncle, clad in rumpled crimson silk pajamas and smelling faintly of cigar smoke, opens his front door that afternoon.</p><p>Tyrion blinks once, twice. “Hello to you, too, dear nephew.”</p><p>He appraises Rowan for a moment, mismatched eyes scanning him from head to toe, and, seemingly satisfied, nods.</p><p>He turns into the house and motions for Rowan to follow. “Come on, then. Scheming is best done in the study.”</p><p>∆ ∆ ∆</p><p>The armchairs in front of the cold hearth in Tyrion’s study are plush, pleasantly overstuffed and low to the ground—ideal for a man of his stature, and even more ideal for a man of petty delights such as Tyrion.</p><p>Petty delights like watching his nephew, the long-limbed, golden scion of the Tarth-Lannister family struggle to maintain some semblance of his usual grace as he lowers himself to his seat. Once Rowan is settled in his seat, Tyrion motions for him to explain the situation.</p><p>Tyrion smiles pleasantly between sips of his afternoon bourbon as Rowan spins his tale, gesticulating wildly with the hand not clutching his tall glass of lemonade.</p><p>The problem, as Rowan sees it, is that he’s caught between keeping the promise he’s made Jaime—to leave Hyle’s name unbesmirched on the weirnet in their quest to bring Brienne around to the idea of a relationship with Jaime—and enacting true justice, which compels him to let the world know just how much of an undeserving ‘chud’ (Tyrion makes a mental note to ask Bronn what that word means later) Brienne’s boyfriend is. The solution to this problem is simple, and Tyrion intends to explain as much as soon as the boy stops flapping his gums about ‘honor’ and ‘Hyle’s dearth of chill.’</p><p>However—Rowan’s real problem is that he’s not the first to attempt to force his gargantuan progenitors to see the light.</p><p>Tyrion himself once attempted such folly. At his twentieth birthday party, in a drunken, sentimental fit of fraternal meddling, he’d locked Jaime and Brienne in a broom closet.</p><p>The idea was for his brother to finally make a move on the blonde giantess he’d been trailing after like a stray puppy for the better part of the year. When Tyrion ‘found the key’ to the broom closet nearly three hours later, he’d expected to find the pair in some state of undress, hair wrecked and eyes glazed over in the aftermath of some lustful act or other.</p><p>Instead, he found Jaime sniffling pathetically into the crook of Brienne’s shoulder while she rubbed soothing circles into his back, sympathetic tears glistening in the corners of her own eyes. Later, Tyrion would learn from Jaime that he’d spent the entire time telling Brienne about their sister. With that incestuous cat out of the bag, Tyrion decided that all hope was probably lost and washed his hands of the situation.</p><p>When a group of them visited Volantis for spring break the following year, Margaery Tyrell spent a small fortune stealthily booking every room in their hotel—save one— under dozens of fake names and bribing hotel staff to ensure every spare cot in the building went missing. Her performance had been stupendous, all doe eyes and pitch-perfect innocence when she asked, “You two will be okay sharing, won’t you?”</p><p>Tyrion fell half in love with her right then.</p><p>Margaery and Tyrion both left Volantis disappointed: Tyrion, because Margaery was a dedicated lesbian with, he was charmed to learn, a lover in each corner of the world—many of them dazzling divorcées in their forties, with impeccable taste in wine and classic cars; Margaery, because Jaime found the only sporting goods store within miles and bought the most expensive cot they had to offer.</p><p>Ellaria Sand tried her luck with a plump Myrish woman who claimed skill in the art of sex magic.</p><p>Daenerys Targaryen concocted a supremely convoluted conspiracy, which required Jaime and Brienne to pretend to be married for two weeks so that <em>Daenerys</em> could inherit some rusty, uncomfortable metal chair from her father’s estate—to this day, Tyrion could not figure out how that one was supposed to work, though he knew well enough why Jaime and Brienne had gone along with it.</p><p>Olenna Tyrell actually paid a scientist to look into the feasibility of body swap technology (a hopeless endeavor, but worth a shot).</p><p>Samwell Tarly, the biggest fool of them all, suggested—first to Brienne, and then, when that failed, to Jaime—that they simply talk to one another.</p><p>And when the fair-haired nitwits finally, <em>finally</em> fucked, their long-suffering friends breathed a sigh of relief. It was finally over. There would be a baby—maybe a wedding, or at the very least cohabitation. <em>Finally</em>.</p><p>Except the stubborn fuckers were determined to die alone and miserable; the torture went on.</p><p>Rowan will fail, Tyrion is sure of it. Not that he can tell Rowan any of that. Not when he’s looking at Tyrion with such bright-eyed optimism, confident in his ability to do what many, many others could not.</p><p>Tyrion is neither gentle nor particularly kind, but he is not without small mercies to bestow, and this is one boon he can give his nephew: to, at a minimum, help him rid Brienne of Hyle Hunt for good.</p><p>“When you made this promise to your father,” Tyrion begins, leaning forward to set his bourbon down on the small side table between their chairs, “what did you say? Tell me exactly.”</p><p>“I said, ‘I promise I will not roast Hyle on the family TikTok,’” Rowan recites dutifully.</p><p>“That’s good. That’s very good.” Tyrion grins. “Because you still have <em>your</em> TikTok account, and you made your father no promises about what might be posted <em>there</em>.”</p><p>Rowan blanches as soon as his personal TikTok account is mentioned, probably because he thought—up until now—that his synth-heavy covers of Dolly Parton songs and memes about the boy’s favorite sci-fi novel series, <em>Transmissions from Deep Space</em>, were a secret he’d kept well-hidden from the adults in his life.</p><p>It’s a good lesson for the boy to learn: there’s no such thing as a secret on the weirnet, and there’s no such thing as a secret kept from his Uncle Tyrion.</p><p>“I—how did you—”</p><p>“I told you, I know things.” Tyrion leans back in his armchair, fingers steepled over his belly. He takes a moment to revel in amusement at the boy’s gaping expression, then says, “You can still—how did you put it? <em>Roast Hyle</em> on TikTok. Just do it from your account. Your parents will be none the wiser, and you’ll get your kicks from faceless teens on the weirnet validating the fact that Hyle is, indeed, the worst. One well-placed link in Hyle’s email inbox and he’ll be so humiliated, he’ll be gone for good—and with his ego so deeply wounded, he probably won’t even tell your mother what you’ve been up to. Who in the hells would <em>want</em> to tell their girlfriend they went viral for peeing in the sink?”</p><p>“Uncle Tyrion,” Rowan breathes, “that’s brilliant!”</p><p>“There is just one thing.”</p><p>Tyrion snatches up his bourbon. Takes a slow sip.</p><p>“If you’re going to do this, you need to do it properly—the Lannister way, if you will. When we stoop low, we at least do it with style. You’ll need a green screen. Professional editing software. Probably wouldn’t hurt to pay someone to tail Hyle and get a few photos of him at his worst, or most boring.”</p><p>Rowan hesitates. “I don’t know if—that might be a bit much, Uncle. The app has these… filters, or whatever, that I use and—”</p><p>“Yes,” Tyrion interrupts, “I’ve seen your work. The built-in green screen effect is perfectly adequate when you’re belting out the words to ‘Jolene’ over pictures of Dolly’s bustiest, most dazzling touring outfits, but if you want to go for Hyle’s jugular, you should consider a more polished approach.”</p><p>“I don’t even know how to use editing software!”</p><p>Tyrion drains his glass, slightly ominous smile spreading slow like the burn of alcohol in his chest. “Never fear, dear nephew. I’ve got a guy.”</p><p>Rowan watches, half in awe and half in terror, as Tyrion pulls out his phone and dials Bronn.</p><p>∆ ∆ ∆</p><p><strong>triplegemini.threat<br/></strong> <em>✧</em> <em>･ﾟ</em> <em>: *</em> <em>✧</em> <em>･ﾟ</em> <em>:* rowan</em> <em> *</em> <em>:</em> <em>ﾟ･</em> <em>✧*:</em> <em>ﾟ･</em> <em>✧ <strong>·</strong> 1d ago<br/></em> <em>#stepdads #anti #youllneverbemydad #screwyouhyle #leavemymomALONE #fyp</em></p><p>Rowan’s voiceover starts over a picture of Hyle’s mousey brown hair, the sides and back of his head shaved down severely, the top left long and slicked back with excessive pomade. “<em>His hair? WACK.”</em></p><p>Sparkling, neon pink captions accompany Rowan’s voiceover, each sentence appearing on screen with a slam effect.</p><p>A short clip plays: Hyle, hiking up a pair of tan Dockers that are strangely baggy around the knees, an ostentatious and bulky divers watch flashing on his wrist. “<em>His gear? WACK.”</em></p><p>Another picture flashes onscreen, it looks like it was taken covertly. A thick gold chain rests against the back of Hyle’s neck, revealed for a fake by the faint ring of green peeking out from beneath the chain. “<em>His jewelry? WACK.”</em></p><p>Next, a picture of Hyle, taken from behind, standing with his nose mere inches from the television in Brienne’s living room. Rugby plays on screen—a playoff game, judging by the tension in his shoulders. His hands are clasped behind his back, legs bent just slightly at the knees and spread so wide it almost appears as if he is about to go into a full lunge. “<em>His foot stance? WACK.</em>”</p><p>Another short clip, muted and taken from a distance, of Hyle at the dinner table; he talks with his mouth full. Brienne, seated beside him, flinches when a few crumbs fly out of his mouth to land on her cheekbone. The frame freezes on her expression of disgust as she wipes them away, Hyle—oblivious to it all—has his mouth open, mid-sentence. “<em>The way that he talks? WACK.</em>”</p><p>A picture taken at the fair’s petting zoo. Brienne and Rowan stand in the enclosure, cuddling two enormously fluffy rabbits to their chests, beaming. In the background, on the other side of the waist-high fence, is Hyle. He frowns, nose wrinkled in distaste. “<em>The way that he doesn’t even like to smile? WACK.</em>”</p><p>A short video of Jaime plays next. He stands in his kitchen, several paces from the breakfast nook table, with a plastic water bottle in hand. “Are you ready?” he mouths. He takes two more steps forward, then tosses the water bottle over his shoulder. He steps aside as he turns slightly. The water bottle has landed just at the edge of the table, right side up. Jaime looks into the camera and waggles his eyebrows, face crinkled with delighted laughter. The camera shakes wildly as Rowan and his dad jump up and down, celebrating the feat. “<em>My dad? HE’S TIGHT AS FUCK.</em>”</p><p>The TikTok ends with flashing green text over a black background:<br/><em>SCREW YOU, HYLE.<br/></em> <em>AND YOU DEFINITELY CAN’T SKATE TRANSITION.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>it will probably be a couple of weeks before i update this again, because i'm polishing up a (very, very, very different lol) one shot that i'd like to post soon. but when we return to this story, it will be with a few tiktok drabbles + two more  chapters of a similar length to this one.</p><p>if you have any tiktok prompts for our tarth-lannister babies, i'd love to hear them!! you can send them my way on tumblr @tiredandtoothless.</p><p>thanks for reading! 💓</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. three.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so. i intially planned for this update to be a short lil thing (as in, &lt;1k words). best laid plans, etc, etc.</p><p>anyways, here's ~3.5k words of... mostly banter. i like writing dialogue! it is what it is!</p><p>this fic has become the thing i work on when i need a break from my other WIPs. my emotional support project, if you will. this is all to say: i know how this story ends, and i know how we're gonna get there, but the path we take will probably be a bit more meandering than i'd planned. i have no idea how long this fic will end up being, but hopefully y'all are willing to come along for the ride!</p><p>the next update WILL be a short one (it's already written 😌). if there are any tiktok recreations you'd like to suggest for these dumbasses (lovingly), you can find me on tumblr @tiredandtoothless.</p><p>thank you for reading! 💓</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s the day of their family game night, and in the week since Rowan first suggested it, he’s re-confirmed Brienne’s willingness to participate no less than four times, which could mean nothing. <em>Probably</em> means nothing. But—call it motherly intuition, or an investigative journalist’s sixth sense for a story, either way: Brienne knows something is up with her son.</p><p>It’s not just his persistent need for reassurance that she will not cancel the game night, either. Rowan has been spending more time than usual grinning at his phone, and every time she asks what he’s looking at, he tosses around a bunch of slang she doesn’t understand to distract her (she still doesn’t know what the hell a ‘poggers’ is, despite the twenty minutes Rowan spent trying to explain it). And when he’s not staring at his phone, he spends most of his time in his room, video chatting with his best friend, Edric, while they supposedly collaborate on some sort of art project, the details of which he divulges in only the vaguest of terms.</p><p>None of this behavior is particularly odd for a teenager. Brienne realizes that it is, in fact, normal for Rowan to spend time cultivating his interests and socializing with his peers. Even his commitment to family game night is sweet; it tells Brienne that her son wants to reserve a place for his parents in his expanding world. But it’s all come on so suddenly, and Brienne can’t help but feel mildly suspicious, so she settles herself in the living room and calls Jaime on the morning of game night, just a few minutes after Rowan departs for Tyrion’s house for the third time that week.</p><p>Jaime answers on the second ring.</p><p>“Morning, Blondie,” he greets her, his voice rough with sleep in a way that nearly causes Brienne to choke on her coffee.</p><p>Most things about sharing a child with Jaime are wonderful, but this—the way he rattles the hornets’ in her belly just by <em>greeting her on the damn phone</em>—is unbearable, and she can’t tell which is worse: the genuinely absurd levels of sexual charisma Jaime radiates, or the fact that her reaction to it hasn’t changed or lessened in the eighteen years since they met at orientation week at university and hated each other’s guts.</p><p>Even when Brienne hated Jaime, she wanted to fuck him. She can’t tell him that, though, because he’d be insufferable about it and, even worse, it would disturb the fragile peace they’ve managed to establish in the years since Rowan was born.</p><p>The first two years were difficult; she hates thinking about that time.</p><p>“Did I wake you?” Brienne asks Jaime once she’s regained her composure.</p><p>“No, no,” he answers, “well. Yes, but it’s okay. Technically, I was taking a nap.”</p><p>On the other end of the line, she hears sheets rustling in a way Brienne can only describe as frantic, and she is convinced there’s someone else in Jaime’s bed at ten o’clock in the morning on a Saturday.</p><p>She tightens her grip on her phone slightly, but her tone is even when she asks, “Late night?”</p><p>Jaime snorts. “Early morning, more like. The kid asked me to bring one of those vegan coconut cream pies he likes to game night”—suddenly, Brienne can breathe again—“so I had to line up outside that bakery at four in the morning. Ro’s not even vegan! And, for what it’s worth, coconut cream pies aren’t even that good in the first place. What’s even the point of a dairy-free coconut <em>cream</em> pie? We’ve created a monster.”</p><p>Brienne rolls her eyes.</p><p>“First of all, you’re wrong—coconut cream pies are <em>extremely</em> good. Second of all, you’re wrong—he’s not a monster, the real monsters are people who refuse to give vegan desserts a chance simply because they’re vegan. People such as yourself. Third of all, you’re <em>still wrong</em>, because <em>we</em> didn’t create a monster. You did. You spoil him.”</p><p>“Remind me, which of us pulled him out of school in the middle of the day and shamelessly abused an official press pass to get him ten minutes with that screaming dog he’s obsessed with?”</p><p>“The dog doesn’t scream, he <em>yodels</em>—”</p><p>“Semantics.”</p><p>“—and it wasn’t ten minutes, it was five. And it was his birthday!”</p><p>“Half birthday, at best. Admit it, we’re horrible parents—terribly indulgent.”</p><p>Brienne rolls her eyes, but her smile is so wide she’s worried he hears it over the phone.</p><p>“It’s sort of his fault, though,” Jaime muses. “Don’t you think? He does that thing with his eyes,”</p><p>Brienne sighs. “He just—he looks so hopeful and earnest when he pulls that face. Like—”</p><p>“A fluffy kitten with a lot of love to give looking for a forever home?”</p><p>“Exactly. It’s very effective.”</p><p>“Lethal, even. It’s a miracle we deny him anything at all. I take back what I said earlier, we’re doing a great job.”</p><p>“In all fairness, he wields his power wisely. Hasn’t asked for a sports car yet.”</p><p>“Or a sexually explicit neck tattoo. Remarkable self-restraint, that one. Definitely gets that—”</p><p>“From me.”</p><p>Jaime sputters. “What? No! I was going to say, he gets that from <em>me</em>.”</p><p>Brienne pulls the phone away from her ear to give the screen a look of bewilderment. She hopes he hears it.</p><p>“Safe to say he didn’t get your sense of self-awareness,” she retorts.</p><p>Jaime concedes with a low chuckle. Brienne catches sight of herself in the mirror mounted on the wall opposite her sofa and flushes at how pleased she looks, her eyes bright and her smile goofy. She clears her throat and schools her face into a more neutral expression.</p><p>“Anyway, believe it or not, I called you for a reason,” she says.</p><p>Jaime hums. “Here I was thinking you just missed the sound of my voice,” he jokes, and it hits a little too close to home for Brienne. She forces herself to laugh. “Everything alright?”</p><p>“Yes, I-I think so. I just—have you noticed anything… off about Ro lately?”</p><p>“Off how?” he asks, tone suddenly serious.</p><p>“It’s just—he’s been spending a lot of time at Tyrion’s lately, and when he’s not at Tyrion’s, he’s on the phone. Usually with Edric.” Brienne shifts anxiously on the couch. “And this family game night thing… he’s awfully serious about it, don’t you think? He keeps asking me if I remember what time we’re starting. I almost—do you think he and Edric are dating and using Tyrion as a cover for their dates or something? Maybe Ro wants to tell us? Tonight?”</p><p>“Ah,” Jaime intones sagely, and Brienne braces herself. That tone of voice usually indicates that Jaime is about to say something very, very stupid. “You saw his weirnet history. The things he’s been looking at.”</p><p>“Wait—what?” Brienne jumps up and starts pacing in front of the couch. “Please—oh, gods, please tell me he’s not looking at—at—he’s so <em>young</em>! Fourteen!” she cries.</p><p>“A-and to not even open a private browser—oh <em>gods</em>! <em>Jaime</em>, why didn’t you tell me our son is looking at—”</p><p>“No! <em>No</em>! Not—Seven, Brienne, <em>not that</em>,” Jaime interrupts. Her shoulders sag in relief. “I meant—hold on, how do you know about the private browser thing?” Jaime makes a strangled noise. “<em>Blondie</em>—"</p><p>She sinks down onto the floor forcefully, as though the ground might actually open up and swallow her whole if she just slams into the ground hard enough.</p><p>It’s not that she thinks there’s anything wrong with watching porn, necessarily—she pays for her porn, and it’s natural to—have needs. Which she does, because sex with Hyle is a bit—bland. She’d once indicated a mild interest in edging and he’d looked at her with his face all scrunched up, as though she’d just vomited on his shoes, and asked, “People put off coming? On purpose? And like it?”</p><p>The point is, she’s an adult woman with a credit card and a healthy respect for sex work. The fact that she watches porn isn’t a problem, but Jaime knowing she watches porn, or—she shudders—<em>picturing it</em>? Very much a problem.</p><p>“<em>Everyone knows about the private browser thing, Jaime!</em>” she shrieks, her face turning a violent shade of puce. “Just. Focus.”</p><p>For a few seconds, all Brienne hears is the sound of Jaime breathing. He’s probably trying not to laugh at her, she realizes. Jaime Lannister, literal romance novel cover model (<em>Beats donating plasma</em>, he’d told her when they’d come across some of his work in a bookstore near campus), probably thinks it’s hilarious that Brienne has a boyfriend and still looks at porn. Jaime Lannister, whose hair shines and whose jawline could cut glass, has probably never had to look at porn in his life. Jaime Lannister, who made her come <em>five times</em> the night Rowan was conceived, could probably fuck the queen if he wanted to. Brienne pushes those thoughts away and returns to the topic at hand. So to speak.</p><p>“Jaime, were you snooping? That’s not… we have to respect his privacy,” she admonishes.</p><p>“I wasn’t, I swear. He lent me his laptop, and I’m not sure what I did, exactly, but all of a sudden it was just… there. He’s been searching ‘how to tell if you’re gay’ and things like that, nothing salacious or dangerous. Or surprising. Also, I think he might have a hyper fixation on the woman with the hair and the—you know. Tits.”</p><p>“Dolly Parton, and yes, he definitely does. It’s my fault. I let him listen to ‘Islands in the Stream’ a little too early and a little too often, I think. Just be glad it was Dolly who imprinted on him and not Kenny Rogers. The rest of it, though—that’s all perfectly normal.” She sighs in relief. “But, Jaime. The other thing—Edric and the game night. Ro seems really nervous about tonight. Do you think…?”</p><p>“Oh. That.” She can hear him smirking through the phone. Smug bastard. “Well, I don’t know if Rowan and Edric are a thing, though it would explain—”</p><p>“A lot. Would explain everything, really. They—”</p><p>“Spend so much time together, I know. It’s a good thing we like Edric. He’s—”</p><p>“Such a sweet boy. And the two of them are so in tune with each other, it’s like they have a—”</p><p>“Mind meld or something,” Jaime says. “They’re both smitten. <em>So</em> obvious.”</p><p>“I wish there was something we could do to help them along.”</p><p>“Probably best we sit this one out. Nothing kills young love quite like parental meddling. Just give it time—they’ll catch up to it eventually,” he says. “Anyway, that’s not why Rowan’s nervous. He thinks you’re going to hate the game he has planned.”</p><p>Her brow creases. “Why would he think that?”</p><p>Jaime hesitates.</p><p>Finally, he says, “It involves a camera. I can’t say anything more than that. I promised.” Brienne groans. “I know, I know,” Jaime says, “but he’s very excited about it. And, honestly, I think you might like it. At the very least, you’ll have fun watching him have fun.”</p><p>“Why do <em>you</em> get to know what game we’re playing while I’m kept in the dark?” she whines.</p><p>He laughs at her. The asshole <em>laughs</em> at her. “Because he loves me more.”</p><p>Her eyes roll so far up she thinks she might actually see all seven heavens. “Fuck off,” she says, then, more softly, “Well. Fine. Thanks for—assuaging my worries, I suppose. I’ll let you go now. Sorry for waking you up.”</p><p>“Any time,” he replies. Brienne is about to hang up when he speaks again. “And—Brienne?”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“About waking me up. Don’t worry about it. It was nice. Hearing your voice first thing, I mean.”</p><p>And what is she supposed to say to <em>that</em>?</p><p>In the end, it doesn’t matter, because he hangs up before she has a chance to open her mouth.</p><p>∆ ∆ ∆</p><p>“What do you think?” Rowan asks, twisting around in his uncle’s desk chair to face Tyrion and Edric, who have crowded in around Rowan’s laptop to watch a few examples of the TikToks he intends to recreate with his parents that evening.</p><p>“I don’t understand,” Tyrion says, expression skeptical. “What’s the point? Your dad surprises her and—what? They suddenly declare their love?”</p><p>Rowan rolls his eyes. “<em>No</em>. Mom turns Lannister red and loses the ability to speak—like she does any time Dad touches her without warning—and then, once Dad’s gone home, I’m like, ‘Hey, Mom, are you feeling okay? You were a little flushed earlier,’ and she’s like—in her head, obviously, because outwardly she’ll play it cool like always—‘Oh, no! Even my son sees how flustered I get around my—‘”</p><p>He stops short. What even <em>is</em> his dad to his mom?</p><p>“Baby father,” Edric supplies. Edric has been a huge help to Rowan over the past few days, adding captions to Rowan’s anti-Hyle TikToks and assuming responsibility for deleting comments calling Rowan’s dad a ‘DILF’ so that Rowan doesn’t have to see them.</p><p>Rowan wishes he’d known Edric two years ago when he’d made the mistake of posting a picture of his dad on his public Ravengram account. Not only did Rowan have to lock his account—thereby crushing his dreams of becoming a Ravengram influencer—he’d also spent the better part of a weekend deleting increasingly vulgar comments regarding his dad’s appearance.</p><p>He’d never been able to look his piano teacher in the eye again. Not after what she’d said about his dad’s forearms.</p><p>“Thank you, exactly,” Rowan tells Edric, “So, anyway, Mom thinks, ‘oh no, everyone can tell,’ and I’m like, ‘You know, Mom, Dad seemed like he had a lot of fun tonight. Didn’t you?’ And, of course, the answer will be <em>yes</em>, because my parents are <em>in love</em>—”</p><p>“And then you force them to spend more and more time together until they can’t deny it any longer. Got it.” Uncle Tyrion shrugs. “It’s a bit indirect—you didn’t inherit the Lannister scheming genes, I’m sorry to say—but… could work, I suppose. At a minimum, the video footage could prove useful for future blackmail material. But this… challenge, you called it?”</p><p>Rowan nods.</p><p>“Seems a little…”</p><p>Edric chimes in again. “Cringe. It’s a little cringe.”</p><p>“<em>Please</em>,” Rowan replies, and definitely does not think about how close Edric’s hand, wrapped around the back of the desk chair, is to the nape of his neck, “who’s more cringe than my parents?”</p><p>∆ ∆ ∆</p><p>His mom won’t stop frowning at the tripod, placed a few feet from the couch, where Rowan has mounted his phone. She stands just behind the tripod, hands on her hips, and stares at it as though it might bite her.</p><p>“Can’t we just play Monopoly?” she asks for the second time. “I don’t really see how this counts as a game.”</p><p>“It counts as a game because it’ll be fun,” his dad says, lounging on one side of the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table.</p><p>“Exactly! Dad gets it.” Rowan leans forward a bit, one hand braced on the back of the couch, and holds out his other hand for a high-five, which his dad immediately supplies.</p><p>“Thanks, Ro.”</p><p>His mom groans, but she makes her way to the sofa and seats herself on the other end—though, not before shoving his dad’s feet off the coffee table. “Okay, so, we just—sit here? While you…?”</p><p>“I’ll play the sound, which will ask me to choose between you and Dad—who makes the best snacks and who’s grumpier in the morning, things like that. I’ll hold a hand over the head of whoever wins each round.”</p><p>“And then what?”</p><p>“And then I upload the video to our TikTok account—Tarthistars. Get it? Like Tarthister, except with two As. ‘Cause we’re stars.”</p><p>“Sounds like an auto company,” his dad snorts. Rowan ignores him.</p><p>“So then what’s the <em>point</em>?” his mom questions.</p><p>Rowan sighs. “You know how you like to look through that scrapbook you made when I was a baby?” His mom nods. “This is kind of like that, except it’s all three of us. In motion. Having fun!”</p><p>His dad grins. “Just think of it this way: we’ll have the perfect material to play at his wedding.” Rowan wants to protest this, but his mom laughs, so he lets it slide.</p><p>“Oh, all right. Let’s get started then,” she sighs.</p><p>Rowan walks around the couch to the tripod and gets everything ready to go. Then he runs back to his place behind the sofa before the sound begins. As the game starts, his mom’s posture is a bit stiff, while his dad seems positively giddy.</p><p>
  <em>Okay, choose Momma or Dadda: who’s the better cook?</em>
</p><p>Rowan lifts his hand, palm facing down, and holds it above his mom’s head. She looks back at him and winks.</p><p>
  <em>Who yells more?</em>
</p><p>Easy. Rowan keeps his hand where it is.</p><p>“I do not yell!” his mom yells.</p><p>
  <em>Who’s better at sports?</em>
</p><p>Once again, Rowan’s hand stays put. His dad bristles.</p><p>“Mom could literally bench press you, Dad,” Rowan says—gently, he thinks. His dad says nothing because it’s the truth.</p><p>
  <em>Who cuddles best?</em>
</p><p>Rowan holds both of his hands above his parents’ heads, and they both shoot him pleased smiles.</p><p>
  <em>Who are you most scared of?</em>
</p><p>Another easy choice: he’s watched his mom menace land developers and crooked landlords without even blinking, while his dad cries at chewing gum commercials. Rowan lowers the hand he’d been holding over his dad’s head.</p><p>
  <em>Who eats the most?</em>
</p><p>His parents are human garbage disposals. Both hands go up again.</p><p>
  <em>Who’s the most fun?</em>
</p><p>Rowan hesitates, but he can’t lie, so he lowers the hand hovering above his mom’s pale blond head.</p><p>“I’m fun!” she says.</p><p>“Your favorite place to take him is the <em>library</em>,” his dad replies.</p><p>
  <em>Who listens to better music?</em>
</p><p>This time, Rowan doesn’t just lower the hand above his dad’s head, he moves it to the side and holds both hands above his mom’s head. Insulted, his dad turns around and scowls.</p><p>“You listen to Mance Rayder, Dad. I mean, <em>really</em>.”</p><p>“He’s a poet! A working-class hero!”</p><p>His mom scoffs. “What do <em>you</em> know about the working class?”</p><p>His dad’s mouth works wordlessly for a moment before the three of them dissolve into a peal of laughter. They’re interrupted by the next question.</p><p>
  <em>Who cleans more?</em>
</p><p>He keeps both hands over his mom’s head.</p><p>“My house is always clean,” his dad objects.</p><p>“You pay someone to do that, doesn’t count,” Rowan counters. His mom hums her agreement.</p><p>
  <em>Who teaches you more?</em>
</p><p>Rowan shifts his hand over his dad’s head, and his mom gapes. “I teach you things!”</p><p>He shrugs. “Dad likes to pontificate”—he learned that word yesterday and is thrilled to have a reason to use it—“it’s a numbers game. Sorry, Mom.”</p><p>His dad squints. “I know I won this round, but it <em>feels</em> like I lost.”</p><p>
  <em>Who do you love more?</em>
</p><p>The easiest one of all: Rowan throws his arms around both of his parents’ necks and pulls them in towards him, flashing a cheeky grin at the camera.</p><p>∆ ∆ ∆</p><p>“You know,” his mom says once they’ve cleared the coffee table of the last remnants of the pie his dad brought over, “that was actually fun.”</p><p>Rowan and his dad beam. “It was, wasn’t it?” his dad agrees.</p><p>“I’m going to send this over to Edric so he can add captions”—Rowan does not miss the look his parents trade across the coffee table, and he very nearly gloats because his plan is <em>already</em> <em>working</em>—“before I upload it. I’ll send you two the link once it’s up.”</p><p>“Oh! Wait! One more thing,” Rowan exclaims, scrambling to pull his phone out of his pocket. It’s time for the surprise challenge—Tyrion and Edric had seemed skeptical earlier that day, but Rowan is convinced it will be a success.</p><p>He looks at his dad expectantly.</p><p>“Ah, yes,” Jaime mumbles, wiping his palms on his jeans. He clears his throat and gestures at a small clearing in the living room that is free of furniture. “Brienne, if you’d please step over there.”</p><p>His mom looks between them suspiciously before moving into place.</p><p>∆ ∆ ∆</p><p><strong>tarthistars<br/></strong>♥ ☆ <em>J + B = R ☆ ♥</em> <em><strong>·</strong> 2d ago<br/></em><em>#surprisehugchallenge #coparentinggoals #GLOMP #fyp<br/></em>Brienne stands an arm’s length away from Jaime, who grins at her mischievously. He lifts his left arm, hand balled into a fist.<br/>“Hold your arm above mine”— Brienne does as instructed—"parallel, like that,” he says.<br/>Jaime lifts his other arm, and motions for Brienne to mirror the gesture. She does.<br/>“Now—keep your arms up, but put one fist on top of the other,” he commands.<br/>The clip cuts, briefly, to a closeup of Brienne squinting, brow knitted and her lips pursed in displeasure. When it cuts back, she has arranged her arms as Jaime as instructed. “… Okay?”<br/>Jaime’s smile widens; in a flash, he has lowered his arms and ducked down, barreling toward Brienne. He pops up in the middle of the circle of her arms and wraps his arms around her waist, hugging her so tightly her feet lift off the ground.<br/>Another closeup of Brienne’s face: her eyes are on the verge of popping out of her head, a flash of blue in the middle of her bright red face.<br/>The video cuts back.<br/>“<em>Jaime!</em>” she yelps, steadying herself with her hands on his shoulders. “What are you <em>doing</em>?!”<br/>Jaime buries his face in her neck and responds in a muffled voice, “What’s it look like, Blondie?”<br/>Brienne hesitates before melting into the hug, patting Jaime’s back fondly.<br/>Behind the camera, Rowan cheers in victory.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. four.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tyrion comes for Jaime's neck. Hyle takes a risky leap.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! fun fact: i finished this chapter ages ago, but then life happened (have you checked the news recently? it's fine, everything is FINE 🙃). so, sorry about the wait, but: chapter four is here! it's shorter than the last couple of chapters, but if your attention span has been wrecked by Recent Events like mine has... maybe that's a good thing?</p><p>thank you so, so much to everyone who's been following along with this silly-ass story and leaving kudos/comments. they really do make my day!</p><p>and a HUGE thank you to literal angel on earth <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virareve/pseuds/Virareve">virareve</a> for the quick beta/sanity check—i probably would have sat on this chapter for another two weeks without her help. 💓</p><p>as always, you can find me on tumblr @tiredandtoothless</p><p>thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I know what you’ve been up to.”</p><p>Jaime freezes, Negroni halfway to his lips, the din of his fellow bar patrons buzzing in his ears.</p><p>Coming from his brother, this statement could mean any number of things—none of them good.</p><p>Immediately, his mind goes to the stack of smutty romance novels sitting on his nightstand, and for a brief moment, Jaime goes numb with humiliation at the mental image of Tyrion (or, more likely, Bronn) photographing paperback spines with increasingly specific titles, like <em>Aroused by Two Lions</em> and <em>Spicy Meatball Swap</em>.</p><p>But while it’s not outside the realm of possibility that Tyrion has been in Jaime’s house without his knowledge or permission—his brother has a <em>thing</em> about blackmail material, which Jaime does his best to not think about too hard—he’s fairly confident that Tyrion wouldn’t trespass for something as trite as evidence of Jaime’s bedtime reading material, so he pushes the well-thumbed copy of <em>The Firefighter’s Last Ride</em> currently resting on his pillow out of his mind and focuses on keeping his expression smooth and impassive.</p><p>After a slow, measured sip of his drink, Jaime feigns ignorance.</p><p>“I can’t imagine what you mean by that,” he says.</p><p>Tyrion snorts. “Jaime. <em>I know</em>. Don’t play coy now.”</p><p>Jaime is about to confess everything: how it started out as a joke in college when he’d only buy the ones with covers he’d posed for; how reading one for the first time had been a joke, too, except he actually <em>liked</em> it and that led him to read another, and then another, and another, until suddenly, he had an entire collection filling a shelf he’d installed in his closet and, honestly, it’s not that weird of a hobby, millions of people read romance novels every day, it’s not like he’s the only one—</p><p>And then he catches the devious edge to Tyrion’s smirk, and Jaime realizes that Tyrion probably isn’t thinking about the romance novels at all, probably has no idea they’re sitting in Jaime’s room in the first place. The more likely scenario is that Tyrion kept his accusation purposefully vague in the hopes that Jaime might inadvertently give him new information to add to the folder on Tyrion’s computer titled, terrifyingly, <em>JaimeLannister_Receipts_vol17</em>.</p><p>“I’m not the one playing coy,” Jaime answers brusquely.</p><p>The bar has grown steadily more crowded in the half-hour since they arrived, and both booths on either side of them are occupied and growing rowdier by the minute. Jaime hopes their drunken chatter is enough to drown out whatever undoubtedly humiliating thing his brother is about to say.</p><p>“You know,” Tyrion sighs, “I ran the numbers once. The results were… chilling. The sort of thing that sticks with you.”</p><p>What numbers? Jaime’s stomach is churning. The Negroni is not helping; he takes another sip anyway.</p><p>“Are you aware that a small kingdom’s GDP has been spent trying to get you and Brienne together?”</p><p>Heavy glass clinks against Jaime’s teeth in his haste to drain his drink. He presses his fingertips into the wooden lip of their table, shaking his head violently.</p><p>“Between the hotel rooms—”</p><p>“—Never asked for that—</p><p>“—and the plane tickets—”</p><p>“—or that—"</p><p>“—and invoices from literal scientific labs—”</p><p>“—<em>especially</em> did not ask for that. They went through my trash to find a sample of my DNA! An absolute invasion of privacy. You’re lucky I kept Brienne in that dark about that, she would’ve—”</p><p>Tyrion waves a hand dismissively, silencing Jaime.</p><p>“The fact is, a sum like that could have been used to do some real good in this world. Medical research, clean energy, free school lunches—we might have had flying cars by now, brother, were it not for the stubbornness of you and Brienne.” The leather upholstery covering the booth cushions squeaks as Tyrion leans forward, head tilted menacingly. “And now, you’ve even got your son wrapped up in this little TikTok scheme of yours. So, I need you to answer one question for me, Jaime: when are you going to pull your head from your ass and just <em>talk to the woman</em>?”</p><p>Jaime sinks down in his seat, unable to meet Tyrion’s eye. Some naïve, wistful part of him had hoped Tyrion would never find out about the TikToks, but the rational part of his brain knows it was only a matter of time. It’s impossible to hide anything from Tyrion, least of all something posted on the weirnet for all to see.</p><p>At least, Jaime is pretty sure the TikToks are posted on the weirnet. He’s not actually sure how the app works, or where the TikToks are kept, or how to access it. Rowan downloaded the app to his phone, but when he opened it the first time, it asked him to log in and he couldn’t remember ever signing up in the first place, so he gave up almost immediately, too embarrassed and stubborn to ask for Rowan’s help.</p><p>His son has a habit of making him feel old. Like, really, really old.</p><p>“Technically, it’s Ro’s TikTok scheme,” Jaime says weakly, toying with the rim of his empty glass.</p><p>It’s the wrong thing to say; Tyrion exhales so forcefully it sends a coaster skittering off the edge of the table and into Jaime’s lap.</p><p>“That’s not the point <em>at all</em>. How long have you known Brienne?” A pause. “Say it. Out loud.”</p><p>“A long time,” Jaime mumbles.</p><p>“Almost two decades. And of those twenty years, how many of them have you spent in love with her?”</p><p>“… All of them?” Jaime’s face heats. He’s spent so long denying to everyone—himself, even—how he feels about Brienne, that the shift to actually admitting it out loud is a little jarring, even if it seems like everyone he knows has always been well aware.</p><p>“And have you ever, in all those years, even <em>once</em> considered just <em>telling</em> her?”</p><p>This time, Jaime snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t just tell her. There’s a process. Steps I have to follow. I have to make sure she’s ready to hear it. To believe me.” He purses his lips, lost for a moment in memory. “She didn’t last time.”</p><p>“A <em>process</em>—you know what your problem is?”</p><p>“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”</p><p>“Your problem is that you’ve read too many romance novels.”</p><p>Jaime pales. He wishes someone would set fire to the building, or set off an industrial-strength stink bomb. Anything to get away from this bar, away from the fact that his brother has firsthand knowledge of just what flavor of romantic erotica Jaime prefers.</p><p>Tyrion continues, his face pinking from the physical effort of containing his irritation, “You think every love story needs to overcome some big, external obstacle before getting to the happy ending—a greedy land speculator twirling his mustache at the sight of your family ranch, or an iceberg cleaving a luxury cruise liner in half. But it’s you, Jaime. <em>You’re</em> the obstacle. You and Brienne both. Sometimes, it really is as simple as two people loving each and deciding to just <em>be together</em>.”</p><p>For a while, Jaime says nothing, mulling it over. He ignores Tyrion’s pointed stare, preferring to scratch his fingernail along the frayed edges of the coaster sitting beneath his empty drink.</p><p>Eventually, it becomes clear that Tyrion will not be changing the subject no matter how long Jaime sits in sullen silence.</p><p>“How’d you know about the romance novels?” Jaime asks.</p><p>“I had a hunch. You just confirmed it.” A flash of a grin sends Jaime’s stomach sinking—<em>bastard—</em>and then Tyrion is deadly serious once more. “Don’t deflect. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”</p><p>Jaime mopes at the table, considering.</p><p>There are a million reasons he could offer Tyrion to explain why his situation with Brienne isn’t as simple as just <em>telling her</em>.</p><p>Before Rowan was born—and for a period after, if Jaime is being honest—he and Brienne’d had no idea how to communicate with each other. While he couldn’t say with any certainty what went on in Brienne’s head, he knew that she’d spent much of her life feeling like the punchline to a cruel joke, and even now regarded any demonstration of affection or kindness from anyone other than Rowan with wariness and suspicion. Jaime, who practically broke out in hives at any display of sincerity, had never been able to find the right words to say to make her trust what he felt for her.</p><p>(Which may have had something to do with the manner in which he’d royally fucked up his one and only earnest attempt at declaring himself to her the morning after Rowan was conceived: he’d started off by comparing her to an aurochs, and then to a mooning calf—and that was just in the first sentence that came out of his mouth. He still cringed at the memory.)</p><p>But what scared him was the possibility that there was nothing he <em>could</em> say to make Brienne believe that he loved her, or to make her trust herself enough to love him back. What scared Jaime even more than that, though, was the possibility that he had missed his window, that she had loved him once but didn’t any longer.</p><p>Not that any of this matters so long as she’s with stupid <em>Hyle</em>, with his stupid, high-pitched laugh that Brienne seems to <em>like</em> for some gods-forsaken reason, and his annoying, weirdly sticky hair and maybe—maybe if Jaime had just said something when she first started seeing Hyle, or if he’d said something when Rowan was younger and the three of them still lived in the same tiny apartment on Visneya’s Hill, or if he’d known how to coax her into lowering her defenses—</p><p>“Stop! Crone’s cunt, just stop!” Tyrion shouts, and Jaime realizes he’s been talking out loud this entire time.</p><p>“Listen to me,” Tyrion says, “you can’t get the last twenty years back. You just can’t. But what you <em>can</em> do is talk to her. Now—”</p><p>“Now? I can’t right now. She and Ro are at the movies.”</p><p>“<em>No</em>, you fool. But soon. Send Rowan to stay the night at a friend’s house. Take some flowers and champagne to Brienne’s place—you know, create a little atmosphere. Maybe light a candle or two when she’s not looking.”</p><p>“Brienne doesn’t like candles. Fire hazard.”</p><p>“Again. <em>Not the point</em>. Stop letting your fourteen-year-old child do your dirty work for you. Bronn and I hardly have any time for our… endeavors with all the time we spend helping Ro brainstorm and edit the videos, and I won’t begin to tell you how much we’ve spent on props and the like.”</p><p>He startles at the revelation that Tyrion is more involved in this TikTok scheme than Jaime had thought. “You’ve been sitting here chastising me over this TikTok arrangement for <em>hours</em>—”</p><p>“Ten minutes. Don’t be dramatic.”</p><p>“<em>Hours</em>, and you’ve had a hand in it this whole time? And you’ve allowed my child to be in the same room as <em>Bronn</em>?!”</p><p>“They’re hardly ever in the same room,” Tyrion sniffs. “Besides, I regret it. Deeply. Bronn’s gone half-mad ever since he started editing those videos for Rowan—keeps throwing shoes in the air and trying to catch them with his foot. I’ve had to take him to the emergency room twice.” He pauses. “Or, you know, call a car to take him to the emergency room.”</p><p>“Is this about your concern for the state of my love life or do you just want your body man back?”</p><p>Tyrion shrugs.</p><p>“Can’t it be both?” He drains the last of his beer, licks the foam from his upper lip before adding, “Just. Give it some thought. I know Rowan says he doesn’t <em>really</em> care if you and Brienne get together, that he’s only doing this TikTok thing because you’re so sad and desperate—”</p><p>“He did not say that!” Not explicitly.</p><p>“And maybe he even believes it, but you and I, the <em>adults</em>, know it’s bullshit. Except for the part about you being sad and desperate and lonely and pathetic. That part’s true. And he did say it.” Jaime rolls his eyes.</p><p>“The fact is, the longer you let this go on, the harder it’ll become for him. For all of you.”</p><p>Jaime rubs the back of his neck, nodding, because his brother is right, and because—for once—he has nothing to say.</p><p>∆ ∆ ∆</p><p><strong>triplegemini.threat</strong><br/><em>✧</em> <em>･ﾟ</em> <em>: *</em> <em>✧</em> <em>･ﾟ</em> <em>:* rowan</em> <em> *</em> <em>:</em> <em>ﾟ･</em> <em>✧*:</em> <em>ﾟ･</em> <em>✧ <strong>·</strong> 6h ago</em><br/><em>#lifesabeach #andsoishyle #manchild #dontworryhelived #anti #fyp #foryou</em></p><p>Hyle, in a sweatsuit, sprawls on one end of a couch. In the background, the sound of a rugby match playing on television at what sounds like full volume. The sun is high and bright, filling the room with light.</p><p>On the other end of the couch, Rowan surreptitiously films Hyle from a low angle.</p><p>“<em>Hyle.</em>” White captions on a lavender background appear onscreen. Hyle does not give any indication that he has heard Rowan. “<em>You look like you can’t swim.</em>”</p><p>Over the sound of a record needle scratching, a slow-motion closeup of Hyle’s head snapping toward Rowan. He blinks, halfway between confusion and rage, twice.</p><p>“<em>What?</em>”</p><p>“<em>I said you look like you can’t swim.” </em>Rowan can barely keep the laughter out of his voice.</p><p>
  <em>“That’s ridiculous. Of course I can swim. Why would you say that?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I don’t know. You just look like a guy who can’t swim.”</em>
</p><p>Hyle’s brow is furrowed, his mouth agape; he blinks rapidly.<em> “I’m actually a strong swimmer, though,” </em>he says, voice laden with offense.</p><p>“<em>I’m just saying, if I passed you on the street, I wouldn’t know that you knew how to swim.”</em></p><p>The video cuts from Hyle’s sputtering outrage to another clip from later in the conversation. Hyle is perched on the arm of the sofa with a foot propped on the opposite knee as he struggles to remove his sock. He’s sweating lightly, red from exertion.</p><p>“<em>I don’t—you really think—this is ridiculous. I’ll show you—” </em>He finally rips off the sock, and holds his foot out toward Rowan. “<em>Look at my feet. Look at them! Do those look like the feet of someone who can’t swim?! Look! Perfectly proportioned for peak efficiency in the water.” </em>He bends his ankle one way, then the other. “<em>Ankle flexibility for maximum power.”</em> Hyle flexes his toes in Rowan’s direction, revealing that they are webbed. “<em>Do you really think someone with webbed toes can’t swim?! I was made for swimming!”</em></p><p><em>“I never said you </em>can’t<em> swim, I just said you </em>look<em> like you can’t swim.”</em></p><p>Hyle makes a strangled sound like he wants to scream. “<em>I bet </em>you’re<em> the one who can’t swim.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“I’m on the swim team, Hyle.”</em>
</p><p>“<em>I don’t—what about me says—I </em>can<em> swim! I am a professional-level swimmer! I swim so fast—are you kidding me? Are you fu—" </em>Hyle stands, setting his feet on the ground heavily, as though he wants to stomp them. “<em>I’ll show you how well I can swim.”</em></p><p>The next clip shows Hyle, still wearing his sweatsuit, on Brienne’s deck. He stands atop the deck railing. Below, the Blackwater Rush flows.</p><p>Off-camera, Brienne shouts, “<em>Hyle! No!”</em> just as he leaps off the railing and belly-flops into the water.</p><p>The video ends with a clip of Hyle, sodden and blue-lipped, being pulled back up the railing by a scowling Brienne. She wraps a towel around his shoulders, roughly rubbing her hands up and down his arms as she leads him back inside.</p><p>“<em>Th-th-the w-water was ch-ch-choppy. I really c-c-c-can swim.”</em></p>
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